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VNto his
mother straight he weeping came,
and of his griefe
complayned:
Who could not chose but laugh at his
fond game,
though sad to see him pained.
Think
now (quod she) my sonne how great the smart
of those
whom thou dost wound:
Full many thou hast pricked to
the hart,
that pitty neuer found:
Therefore
henceforth some pitty take,
when thou doest spoyle
of louers make.
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